Tomb Raider: The Lamp Of Al Adin
by Ravensara
Summary: A stolen artifact recovered from a plane crash just might be the inspiration for the tale of Aladdin and the magic lamp.
1. Chapter 1

1

Milagros Rodriguez saw plenty of tourists. He ran a ramshackle outfitter's and equipment rental business out of an old Native American souvenir stand a short distance off a dirt road two stones' throw from Nowhere. If you contacted him in advance, he could provide one of the locals—often a relative of his—as a guide. His knowledge of the area, its history, its legends, and his ability to come up with just about any sort of vehicle on short notice had made him the worst kept secret of hikers, rock hounds, fossil hunters, and other extreme outdoorsy types who took pleasure in risking sunstroke, severe dehydration, and other hazards in the name of fun. But the man who'd been waiting outside of the tumbledown shop before sunrise was a bit out of the ordinary.

Milagros spoke not a word as he inserted his key into a small, rusty metal box beside the front door, lifted the lid and entered a code onto the keypad that controlled the door lock. When he heard the creak of hinges, the tall blond man rose with a groan, pressing his hands to his kidneys while bending backward to ease the kinks from his spine. Then he entered the cool, dark interior behind the shop's owner and waited for the lights to come on.

Overhead fixtures placed the interior in a faintly blue-tinged glow that gave the place a somewhat distant, inaccessible quality despite the fact it was packed beam to floor with survival gear. The stranger stood silently observing while Milagros pondered whether to offer him coffee or not. The man's fit physique, his clean and high-tech clothing and gear made the shop keep think he had plenty of spending money. The fact that he was wide awake before sunrise and had been waiting who knew how long for the shop to open suggested he'd probably taken his fill off coffee hours ago.

He watched the tall blond withdraw a bit of paper from his safari vest and unfold it. The stranger strode boldly forward and vanished within the maze of crates, boxes, and stacked gear. _Money_, thought Milagros appreciatively. _This should be a great morning._

He was stirring powdered creamer into his roasted coffee and chicory blend when the man approached the counter and smoothed his list out upon it. His eyes were a shade of blue that made one think of a clear, desert sky midway up between the horizon and the zenith. The man's hair looked soft and shimmered light gold as it drifted a little across the top of his high forehead. He smelled of lemons, peppermint, and pine needles and his fingernails were well-shaped and very clean.

"Hi," the man finally blurted after some awkward hesitation, his eyes betraying the fact that he wasn't certain what language he should address the shop keep in. "I…I have this list-"

Milagros plucked it from beneath his long, pale fingers and lifted his small, wire-framed glasses from where they dangled over his heart up to his face so he could see better. The printing was neat and firm with faint dots beside most of the items listed as though someone had repeatedly pored over the list, counting the items off with a ball point pen. He said nothing as his large, dark chocolate eyes scanned the creased paper, his soft, pink mouth a little slack. _Dios mio_, he thought, his bushy black eyebrows ticking upward for just a second. _This guy knows his stuff!_ "Uhn-hun," he grunted, folding the paper over his thumb and thinking. "You need ride?"

"No. My Jeep is parked beside the building."

"You need guide?"

"No, sir. I have a map and a compass. I know where I'm going."

Milagros pursed his lips and nodded slightly. "Which direction you go?"

The blond stiffened a little and suspicion added an edge to his voice. "West northwest."

"Wes nor wes," the shop keep repeated, his vision distant. He cut his eyes suddenly toward his customer and smiled, balling the list in his hand. "I know what you need. Come with me."

Surprised, the blond followed him.


	2. Chapter 2

2

He hadn't quite stopped the modified Jeep CJ-7 Renegade completely when he withdrew the map once again and checked his compass. He half expected to see a thin trickle of rising smoke or a flock of vultures overhead even though the crash site was over 24 hours old, and the bodies had already been recovered. The Gulfstream GIIB had gone down only a few miles from the outfitter's shop, well away from any roads or trails, but near enough for investigators to arrive by midmorning after breakfast and coffee, scratching and bathroom breaks. At the moment he was more concerned with running into any members of the media.

Sure enough, a helicopter distinguished itself from a distant bird by turning enough so its silhouette became identifiable. The blond sighed and mashed the accelerator, not looking forward to being stopped for questioning or other delays. He had no legitimate reason to be lurking around like some morbid curiosity seeker, but he did have a job to do and the sooner, the better.

The cranberry red vehicle leaped and skittered over terrain better accessed by horseback. The man knew there was no more likely reason for the chopper to be hovering than for it to be over the crash site. Steve Rosenthal had been quite the celebrity multi-millionaire, so his accidental demise at the young age of twenty-eight had been big news. The landscape sloped upward and it was a good thing he was a wary driver, or he would have gone hurtling over the edge of the box canyon.

Now that he was close enough, he could see that the helicopter carried no government, law enforcement, or news media markings. It was a Bell 205A-1 and he wondered what it meant in relation to his assignment.

He ignored it as it hovered close enough for the occupants to get a decent look at him, perhaps snap a photo or two. As he hurriedly unpacked his gear, he wondered if he'd have to trade his vehicle in to avoid identification of it later.

The canyon walls dropped steeply toward what looked like a little slender ribbon of water from his height. He was not afraid of heights, but airplanes made him queasy. The chopper descended within the close space while the blond man swapped his safari cap for a carbon fiber helmet, added shatterproof polarized goggles, and discarded his thick-soled Wolverine hiking boots for specialized Kevlar-toed jika- tabi with unissued WWII canvas gaiters laced over them to help protect his ankles. He donned special gloves, knee and elbow pads, and a harness outlined in pockets and clip rings for attaching and stowing extra gear. Certain his parking brake was on, he further stabilized the Jeep with chocks, tested the remote control he wore on one wrist, then lowered himself over the ledge on the synthetic fiber reel he'd replaced the woven steel tow cable with.

He was startled when the chopper rose abruptly behind him. He watched it soar over the ledge and vanish in the general direction of his vehicle. He hoped they weren't there to tamper with the Jeep. He hoped he wasn't getting himself into something he might get killed over.

Fresh scars in the earth and the debris field below gave him some idea of how far he'd need to descend before he began his search. He knew the stream created the illusion of distance: it was genuinely a rather narrow and even shallow body of water. He swung himself back and forth using toe and finger holds to reposition himself. Down below, a team of four people were rapidly combing the remains of the private jet and its scattered contents. He realized they were likely searching for the same thing and became a little more reckless in his descent, trading surefootedness for speed.

He came across fresh shearings of rock, but knew they were likely caused by the vibrations of the impact and not from the crash itself. A little lower and he identified oily soot. He'd be there soon. Looking down, he saw that two of the team members were already making their way up toward him.

The young man was not former military, not a seasoned rock climber, not a professional athlete, nor had he ever received any sort of extensive training for the job at hand. He had only recently graduated from veterinary school and was not generally in the habit of looting accident scenes at all. He felt a strong twang in his lifeline and paused, swallowing, hoping no one above was sabotaging his vehicle. The two climbers below him were closing in on him fast. They had apparently decided it was in their best interest to confront the competition rather than rely on speed to locate the item they were after first.

He considered his choices: activate the reel and let them claim the site, stay put and wait to see what they would do, or fall? The aerial photos he had seen of the crash site indicated it was more likely that any intact objects would have littered the canyon floor than have landed on some slight rocky ledge or been snagged on a cliff face outcropping. The blond man decided to fall and deal with the pair still scouring the canyon floor.

He reeled himself higher to give himself more maneuverability, then reached into a pocket for some talcum powder. When he released it, the slight wind currents carried it toward his right, outward and away from the canyon wall. With a shrug he drew his legs up and practiced straightening them a few times so that he bounced outward a little farther each time. Then he sprang away from the cliff face mightily and tugged an emergency cord that released him from the cable.

A moment later he heard a shout and discerned at least one of the climbers was female. With barely enough altitude, he pulled a ripcord and a fluorescent yellow rectangle of silk deployed above him, yanking him harshly for a moment before gliding him along the canyon wall.

Too close, he used his legs to run along the stone face until he felt confident to push away from it. His maneuver sent the small sport chute into a wobbling spin before he was able to stabilize it again with the control cords.

His competition was aggressive, so he steered straight for one of the seekers below. Head down, he never saw it coming. The blond grunted with the impact, and then landed badly, legs unprepared for contact with the ground, body twisted so that he struck and stumbled, getting dragged until the chute happened to engulf the other searcher like a net, trapping him until the chutist struggled upright while clinging to his flailing form, and then wrestled him to the ground and threw a few guesswork punches until the mummified shape lay still.

Breathless, the blond felt for the quick-release latches that would free him from the chute and wondered how hard it would be to locate the item he sought. Smaller than a breadbasket and made of stone, it had hopefully survived the incident intact. He stumbled over chunks of metal, broken glass, and the arm of a padded seat. The ground was peppered with scraps of torn and charred fabric, stuffing, springs, plastic, flatware, the door to a small refrigeration unit, a badly dented cooktop. All he had to go on was a drawing and a description of the type of stone. The item would be a deep blue, grey, dingy dark green color and thus easy to pick out from the mostly reddish brown, white and sand-hued terrain.

A rock clipped his shoulder. He turned to see a slender man with a football-player's physique racing toward him. He crouched slightly, waiting. The guy's hands rose before him like claws and the tall blond stepped backward and to the side, accepting the man's hands in his own, and using his body as a pivot to fling the guy using his own momentum into a near-circle that sent him staggering badly until he fell over a tire. The blond withdrew a cylinder from a pocket. It was silvery and about the thickness of a roll of fifty-cent pieces. As he moved toward the football player he telescoped it to its full length, then brought it down repeatedly on the guy's upper shoulders and neck until a knife whistled past his ribcage and jutted out from the tire.

Turning, he saw a dark-haired woman smiling coldly as she squinted his way. She was pretty with dark hair in a pixie cut, a sky-blue bandanna knotted around her neck, an oversized long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves rolled past her elbows, and baggy cargo pants almost pooling around her rock-climbing footwear. "Sit down," she commanded as she withdrew a length of silk rope from a pants pocket.

"Why should I?"

"Because I carry more than one knife."

He shrugged. "So do I."

She continued to approach. "I also have a gun."

"I do, too."

"Prove it," she challenged.

"Only if I have to."

"You do," she assured him, looking him up and down. "Who are you with?"

"See, that's the funny thing," he began, grinning through dust and sweat. "They've never given me a name."

She started circling him. "What is it you're after?"

"What are _you_ after?"

Her smile spread. He turned in place as she orbited him. He watched her poke at and then experimentally kick the guy he'd just beaten with the baton. She lifted an eyebrow, then continued to prowl counterclockwise, keeping her right side concealed from him as well as she could.

The man said, "I'm looking for an old oil lamp. Made of stone. Might've broken in the impact, though."

"Drop your weapon," she ordered.

He depressed a button that collapsed the baton and let it fall from his fingers. Looking upward past her, he commented, "I was hoping to find it before they arrived."

She stopped and smiled knowingly. "There's nobody up there."

He curled his right hand toward the remote he wore and activated the Jeep's horn. The sudden sound made her gasp and turn. She was still whipping her head back toward him to make certain he wasn't trying to trick her when her face met his fist. The man caught her and laid her down gently, frisked her for weapons, then yanked her knife free of the tire.

It was ridiculous how quickly he located the item. A rock jutting from the stream had a shape that was just a shade too regular. He wrenched the heavy hard plastic case free of the silty bottom and popped the latches, relieved there was no lock on it. Nestled within Polystyrene foam cut to hold its shape was an ovoid object not unlike a flattened pumpkin, roughly four and a half inches tall. The top was ringed with openings that could be lit after fuel oil had been added. It had suffered damage in the past and been repaired with molten gold that striated it gorgeously like a pattern of lightning. The stone appeared to chatoyesce a little in the sunlight. It was shockingly heavy, polished to a high gleam, and exuded a faint fragrance of something warmly sweet, vaguely woodsy, and ancient.

He lowered the cable using his remote and reattached himself before making his way back up to his vehicle. When he finally cleared the top, he was surprised to see a woman in a flight suit and helmet with sunglasses smiling at him. She didn't offer to help him to his feet, so he struggled over the edge and moved slowly away from it, lifting his hands in surrender while facing down the barrel of her Glock 17. She approached to disengage the plastic case from his harness, then backed away from him. "Thank you, Handsome. To whom were you planning on delivering this?"

Her accent was British and educated. He winced, hating this part. "I was never told a name."

"Hmm," she responded, cocking her head slightly. "I watched your performance down there. Is everyone still living?"

"Yes, ma'am," he answered softly, his head lowered.

"That's the only thing keeping you alive, then." She moved toward the helicopter. He could see another figure in the pilot's seat. "You have four slow leaks in your tires, I'm afraid," she said, gesturing toward the Jeep with her gun. "If you depart now, you won't have as far to walk beneath this dreadful desert sun."

He inhaled and nodded understandingly.

She set the case in the chopper and climbed on board, blowing him a kiss when the blades kicked up sand and the craft lifted. It dipped back into the canyon to pick up her companions and the blond man quickly ransacked his vehicle for something to repair the tires with.


	3. Chapter 3

3

She moved down the stairs of the flat, heading for the street. She had parked two blocks away to throw off any potential followers, but as soon as her feet hit the sidewalk, she had someone's arm thread through the crook of her own and clasp it snugly. Looking up, she caught sight of a clean, stubble-free jaw, a long, handsome nose, a prominent cheekbone, and a rather vivid blue eye. Within a matter of five steps he'd used her momentum to propel her toward the waiting car hiding in plain sight right in front of the building she'd emerged from. He shoved her within a bit roughly, then pushed her over to give himself room to sit beside her. The door locked automatically as the sedan pulled into traffic.

"Aren't you the fellow with the bright yellow parachute?"

"We traced the registration on the gun I lifted off your friend," he admitted.

"And then you staked out her flat, thinking you might run into her again?"

"But you're a better catch, aren't you, Miss Croft?" he asked her.

"Depends on what you're using for bait."

He allowed himself a slight quirky smile. "Where is the lamp, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I do, and it's on its way to its rightful owner."

"And whom might that be?" the American asked, although she could hear the skepticism in his voice.

"Might I know the name of my abductor?"

An eyebrow drifted upward as he considered her request. "McKenna."

"Mr. McKenna," she began, "that lamp was stolen from the family of a personal friend of mine and sold on the black market to Stephen Llowell Rosenthal, the American pharmaceutical kingpin, recently deceased. I was hired to see if I could retrieve it-"

"Steal it back," he corrected.

"And return it to its rightful owner."

"Funny that friends would have to pay you to help them in this purely innocent endeavor."

Her jaw tightened, but she remained otherwise cool. "It is a family heirloom. It has been in their possession for over a thousand years. Of course they offered a reward for its return."

He smirked. "You left the airport, and then you ended up here. Somewhere between Heathrow Airport and your friend's apartment you stashed it for safe keeping."

"I sent it parcel post-"

He burst into laughter. "The more stupid you think I am, the more entertaining your story becomes."

"Someone saw me at the airport," she conceded. "Then you show up outside of Mariaelena's flat. I was already inside. Where do you think I stopped between?"

"I don't need to retrace your steps, Miss Croft," he assured her. "I only need the location of the lamp."

"And what wealthy American will have it next?" she asked him.

"As I mentioned previously, I don't know his name."

She stared at the back of the driver's head. "But, he knows."

"He might."

"You risked your life to acquire it," she told him. "Now you've flown halfway around the world to try and get it back again. Why doesn't you employer simply make the family an offer? They might be persuaded to sell."

McKenna cleared his throat. "I haven't yet acquired any item that someone simply agreed to sell."

She tried, crossing her legs, displaying a pretty knee shadowed by a fine webbing of nylon, "Then what would he offer me?"

McKenna blinked. "Name a figure. Perhaps we can reach an agreement."

Lara's smile bloomed and merriment twinkled in her eyes. "You haven't had this job long, have you dear?"

"It's not my job," McKenna told her, looking uncomfortable. "He is not my employer. I am merely called upon…upon occasion…to acquire certain specific things."

"But, you are paid for it."

"Handsomely," he admitted.

"Then perhaps I could make _you_ an offer."

His eyes flicked toward the driver. "You would pay me…to forget the lamp?"

Lara nodded while absently, perhaps even casually settling a hand upon his leg slightly closer to his knee than his hip. She could feel the tensing of the muscles beneath the fine fabric. He was rather striking in the smoky deep blue English-cut suit.

He stared at her hand. Very softly, he mentioned, "It need not be a monetary exchange, I take it?" Surprise lit his features as she slowly but deliberately shifted her weight to one hip and leaned in toward him. He didn't know whether to jerk backward or kiss her when her leg shot upward so that her heel met the back of the driver's skull.

The driver's head shot backward as though he'd wanted the slender protuberance to pierce his flesh, and then nodded forward deeply as his hands relaxed and fell from the steering wheel. The car surged, then crashed into the rear of another vehicle. They didn't impact with great force, but it knocked the two passengers against the back of the bench seat and dropped them to the car floor. Lara struggled to free her sidearm from the garter holster she wore beneath her short dress while the blond McKenna attempted to smother her beneath himself so he could prevent her escape. She flailed at his face with her fingernails and was surprised when he leaned into her rather than draw away.

"Stop it, Lara!" he repeated. "Nobody has to get hurt! This isn't a life or death scenario!"

She laughed. "Am I supposed to trust you?"

"You can't unlock the doors anyway, and they have bullet proof glass."

She struggled a moment longer before relaxing reluctantly with a miffed sigh.

The driver had recovered and glared over the seat at her. He handed McKenna a Beretta M92F. "Keep her quiet. I need to handle this," he said, exiting the vehicle to tend to the other driver and any other occupants of the vehicle they'd rear-ended.

"Up on the seat," McKenna ordered, easing up onto it himself.

She twisted her lips into a scowl, then started to rise before falling back with a moaning sort of yelp. "_Ow!_ What did you do to me?"

Used to caring for sick and injured animals, he instinctively leaned toward her to see if he could help. She pushed up off of the floor abruptly and snapped his head back with an elbow to the face. McKenna dropped the handgun, and when he could see again, she was fleeing through the driver's open door. He hollered, then grabbed his nose to make sure it wasn't bleeding. The stocky, heavyset driver seized her arm as she tried to run by, but she managed to break free, screaming for the authorities until she was well out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Lara ducked into a nearby pub to order a pint of ale and make a couple of phone calls. The first was to a friend of hers known as a bit of a computer expert to see if he could turn up any information on an American named McKenna. "There are thousands of Americans with that last name," came the reply.

"Roughly thirty years old, about a hundred and ninety-five centimeters, thirteen stone, blond, blue-eyes, athletic build. Perhaps he's a mountain climber or enjoys parasailing or something. Get me anything you can."

"Will do."

Then she called her friend Hala. "You said it's just a family heirloom," she accused, "but I've a bit of competition and I'd like to know why."

"It's just an old lamp," the woman assured her. "Very old, very beautiful, handmade."

"Been in the family for generations, I know. But, that being the case, how did someone conspire to steal it and why would an American pharmaceutical engineer be interested in it?"

"It was misplaced when my family moved into our new palace. We don't know who stole it—perhaps one of the men we hired to help us move. Maybe one of our own family members who was down on his luck. How should I know why anyone would have an interest in it? Aside from the gold, you could probably find half a million more just like it being sold to tourists in the streets."

The story sounded too vague to ring true. "Just an old objet d'art, then?"

"No significant value, aside from the gold," Hala insisted.

"Historical?"

"Perhaps. I wouldn't really know," she said. "My flight will be landing in forty minutes, Lara. It will be so good to see you again!"

"Of course," Lara told her before ending the call. The item had sold for well over half a million, she knew. It did not contain nearly enough gold to justify a price like that. Rosenthal had been flying with it to his home in Nevada when his Gulfstream had lost altitude and crashed. Lara called back her first friend and asked if he could find out where the jet had departed from.

"San Pedro, California," he told her promptly. "I have your McKennas narrowed down to forty-seven possibilities. Shall I send you their photos?"

"Please do," she replied.

When she finished her beverage and left the pub, she was unaware that she was being followed.


	5. Chapter 5

5

One of the benefits of being wealthy was that one could easily procure whatever one needed and even occasionally on a moment's notice. Lara had actually purchased the burial vault years ago to use as a private storage facility. Absolutely no one bothered it, it was extremely secure, and who in their right mind ever followed mourners into a graveyard?

She took her time arranging the flowers she'd picked up in the bronze urn set atop the low headstone that read simply, "FECKS", and within the boxlike, marble structure itself was a plain stone bench before a bronze plaque that said, "Arthur" with a set of dates beneath it to make it more believable. She had signed the guest book at the rectory as she always did when visiting, and noted that her black hosiery now had a run from the right knee up to the thigh thanks to Mr. McKenna. _What an amateur_, she thought, recalling his deceptively soft voice, his plushy, spicy woodland cologne, those intelligent blue eyes. _Persistent, but inexperienced_, she decided as she took a measured breath, squared her shoulders, and strode up to the locked iron gate.

The key was heavy, the lock huge and ugly. The rusting chain pulled free and she pried the gate open with a questioning creak. The cemetery she had chosen was old, though not so old it was neglected, and not so new that it nearly always had visitors. It was remarkable in that almost no one of any significant historical mention was interred there, thus ensuring no throngs of tourists milling about.

She had initially arrived after her flight to deposit the package in the caretaker's shed with an envelope containing a 20 pound note and a message describing where the item was to be left. She had never interacted with the caretaker directly, but knew he could probably recognize her on sight after having seen her visit the crypt now and then—particularly since she was the only visitor and he could not recall anyone actually having been interred there. He kept the lock lubricated and the interior swept, and was happy to keep his nose out of someone else's business so long as the gifts of money kept appearing on his workbench.

Then she had traveled to Mariaelena's to feed her cat and borrow a somewhat conservative dress.

Now she closed the gate over and bypassed the bench to visit Arthur's crypt. A different key unlocked it, and then a huge, very long drawer slid out for her convenience. She reached within to lift out the heavy package and carried it to the bench so she could slit it open with a small knife. Well wrapped in newsprint, nestled within a froth of crinkled, shredded paper strips was the lamp. She freed it and set it on the bench beside her, setting the packaging on the floor. Withdrawing a penlight from a pocket, she played it over the surface of the object and witnessed something like chatoyancy or opalescent fire just beneath the glossy surface. Areas of it were strangely dull and dark, so she flipped it upside down and used her tiny blade to poke at one such spot, dislodging a fine, crumbly, dirty gold powder.

"Knock knock," said a voice that nearly startled her into dropping it. She whipped her head toward the entrance. McKenna stood there with a sidearm lengthened by a silencer pointed her way.

"I never saw you following me," she complained as she set the lamp down carefully.

He pushed the gate, made it creak, and then reclosed it carefully as he stepped within the cool gloom. "When I took your arm, I hooked a tracking device to your dress."

She felt along her sleeve and sides until she dislodged something near her waist. "Clever."

He smiled. "I love to be underestimated. What are you doing with the lamp?"

She sighed. "Attempting to unlock its mysteries."

"Is it merely a lamp?"

"I don't think so."

"Me, either," he admitted. "Opened it up, yet?"

He gestured with the gun, so she lifted and manipulated it in her hands, eventually freeing the top. The inside was surprisingly brittle and coarsely textured like some sort of coral. Millions of tiny pockets still held a nearly solidified liquid. "It shimmers like tiger's eye or opal, is as heavy as lead, but the inside is like pumice."

The tall man nodded. "I believe what you may have there is a chunk of carved and highly polished meteorite."

"Most meteorites are nickel," she said.

"Most are," he agreed. "And a few are something closer to gemstone." He had moved close enough to gaze at it alongside her.

"Do you know it is a meteorite for a fact?"

He shrugged. "I had my driver contact my benefactor so I could ask a few questions about it."

An elegant eyebrow rose. "And what else did you learn?"

"It's been in the possession of a very wealthy family for centuries. The mythology behind it," he said, shaking his head as he smiled slightly, "is that this is the very lamp that the tales from _The Arabian Nights _is based upon."

She gave him a disparaging look. "Are you trying to convince me that this is a magical lamp?"

He shrugged. "I'm only repeating what I was told. Why it has value."

"Well, it would only have value if it worked, right?"

He shook his head and allowed his palms to drift apart. "Ridiculous. I know."

"Aladdin's lamp," she said. Suddenly she seized the object and began to rub a palm back and forth across its side briskly. "C'mon genie…c'mon genie…."

McKenna's attention wandered. "Arthur," he said, reading the bronze plaque. He recalled the surname he'd seen on the headstone outside of the crypt. "Fecks." He chuckled in disbelief. "Is that the best you could do? Artie Fecks?"

Her gaze withered. "It worked well until today."

He laughed. "If you can afford something as absurd as this, then why are you involved in this? Why do you go to all the trouble and expense, risk your life to locate lost objects?"

So he'd gotten more than just her name from his mysterious benefactor. "Why do _you_, Mr. McKenna?"

"I'm not even sure how I got into it," he grumbled.

"This isn't working," she said, lifting the lamp to study it. She abruptly tossed it to him. "You try."

As she expected, he made an awkward catch for it. His handgun swung out, caught on his index finger, came loose as he attempted to maintain a grip on the lamp, and bounced off of his thigh. Before he could tuck the artifact beneath his arm and bend for it, the woman launched herself from the bench and slid across the marble floor, blocking him. She grabbed it first and rolled onto her side to point it at his head. He swung the lamp out to the full extent of his arms and threatened, "I'll drop it!"

"Yes, when I shoot you, I am certain that you will."

His look of alarm melted into a lazy grin. "My benefactor warned me you're a tricky one."

She shrugged. "I get by."

"He said you're exactly the type he's been looking for to help fill his ranks."

"How unfortunate, then, that he had to settle for you."

McKenna walked slowly to the bench and lowered himself onto it, then took a good look at the object in his hands, ignoring the woman as she eased herself into a sitting position, then up onto her feet. "What are you doing?" She snapped at him, "keep your hands where I can see them!"

"If you'll reach into my left jacket pocket," he instructed, lifting his hands to prove he was harmless, "you'll find a small paper-wrapped parcel. Would you remove it for me, please?"

She approached him warily, the gun steady in her hands. She pressed the end of the barrel into his face before reaching for the pocket he had indicated and feeling stiff paper within. She withdrew what felt like a slightly heavy box and backed away with it. There was a receipt taped to the brown paper. It was from a pipe shop she had passed by many times in her life. "A final cigarette before your execution?" she teased, though she preferred not to have to kill him.

"Open it, please."

She scrutinized the receipt carefully. It listed a small quantity of lamp oil and a box of matches, how much he had paid for it and his change, the time of the transaction and the date. "You just purchased this on the way over?"

"I figured you might be here a while. The shop isn't far. Your transmitter is very short-range and eats batteries like a cop eats doughnuts."

She laughed. "Have you really found that to be true?"

"Oh, yes," he assured her. "They gave me extra trackers because they're actually cheaper than the ridiculous little batteries."

She regarded him with a sideways smile. Turning the parcel over in her hands, she remarked, "the problem now is determining why you stopped to shop when you could have potentially lost track of me. Obviously, you felt it was of high importance to procure these items." She glanced over at the lamp. "Is this in anticipation of finding it, or of losing it again?"

"Well, finding it, of course. What good would those things do me otherwise?"

"Why do you want the lamp lit, Mr. McKenna?"

"Geoff," he said, hoping he didn't sound like he was trying to charm her.

Which was exactly what she thought. Suspicious, she checked her watch. "I am running out of time before I meet up with the rightful owner."

He smirked. "Then why were you taking time to examine it? Why not just hand it over before…before you grow attached?"

She found him amusing in a clumsy way. "Curiosity drives me," she admitted. "In virtually all things."

"Shall we enjoy a little lamp lit conversation before we part?"

"Why should I trust you?"

He smiled. "Call the pipe shop. Describe me. Ask if I was truly there."

"You want to fill the lamp and light it?"

"I'd like to see it lit," he told her. "Did you notice the fire in the stone?"

"It's called chatoyancy," she told him. "_Chat_, like the French word for cat. As in cat's eye or tiger's eye gemstones."

"I know," he told her.

Her brow furrowed. "You suspect lighting the lamp might create some effect…might do something that inspired the tales of genies granting wishes?"

He hesitated, dropping his gaze. "I have no idea. How silly, right? There are no genies. Wishes are never granted by supernatural means on demand." He shook his head and sighed. "Take it. Take the lamp. Give it back to its original owner."

She eyed him suspiciously.

"Do what you will with the oil and the matches." He looked at her. She remained still, the gun trained on him. He rose suddenly and thrust his chest outward, spread his arms wide. "Go ahead, then," he told her, turning his face to the side and closing his eyes. "Get it over with."

"Must I?"

He peeked at her through one eye. He turned his back to her instead. "Is this better?" The bullet never arrived. He sighed and allowed his head and arms to droop. "Should I attempt escape?"

"You are not my prisoner," she informed him.

"Pity that," he murmured. "You have the gun and I am unarmed, so I suppose I'll…I'll just leave." He started toward the gate and Lara thought to call him back, then decided no, just let him go. She crept cautiously after him, peered beyond the gate to watch him pick his way through the cemetery, head down, hands thrust in his trouser pockets like a defeated little boy. For a moment she felt sorry for him, then dismissed him as pathetic, wondering why anyone had chosen someone so inept to pursue her. She checked her watch again. If she left immediately, she would likely be a few minutes late for her rendezvous. Not so late that it would alarm anyone….

Lara exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. She turned to lean heavily against polished marble and realized she still held his package in her hand. She turned for another look and eventually caught sight of the tall, handsome gentleman clearing the main gate and exiting to the sidewalk. She looked down at the item in her hand and smiled.

Hurrying to the bench, she tore through the wrapper to expose a common box of friction matches, an ordinary small bottle or very regular lamp oil of the sort used to fill anything from decorative indoor lamps of glass or stone to campers' lanterns which were being phased out by more popular electric ones. She ripped through the box, plucked free the little bottle and gazed at it briefly. Nothing extraordinary about it. The liquid within smelled very usual. The matches appeared normal in every way. She paused to listen, making certain no one was creeping up on the crypt.

The liquid soaked into the porous lamp before it pooled. She used only enough to be certain she could light it, replaced the lid, and then withdrew a match. Again she hesitated. Was it a trick? Nothing should explode—if Geoff wanted the lamp, he wasn't likely to damage it. She struck the match, smiled at the flame, lowered it to one of the holes in the top of the lamp and watched the glow take hold.

There is something very relaxing about staring into flames on a primal level. Lara was instantly reminded of huddling around a campfire, listening to food sizzle and pop over outdoor cook fires in exotic locales, that amazing hibachi grill she went to that time with that guy…oh, what was his name? And the chef tossed shrimp to them and one struck her forehead. Blazes in the mansion she'd grown up in on cold winter nights and others inside of a Sherpa's simple dwelling, the glitter of jewels by torchlight exposed by a wall of a cave collapsing, her father teaching her how she could pass her fingers through a candle flame quickly and be left unharmed when she was just a child….

Without realizing it, she'd lit another hole and another until all seven burned brightly and the colors in the stone seemed especially vivid, brighter, and to move with life of their own. The resin that filled the external crevasses began to warm and exude an exotic fragrance. Tiny sparks began to flare around the flames and drift like tiny drops of molten gold in lazy spirals around the artifact. She sat staring dully into the hazy glow, inhaling the hypnotic perfume, her face a mask of bliss, her pupils expanding to reflect the play of light like distant galaxies.

She recalled how good it felt to find a sunny spot as a child and turn her back to it, sensing the warmth soaking into her clothing and body so that she would forget she was surrounded by snow. She also used to seek out sunny spots on the carpeting to lie on while reading, and snuggling alongside an old cat that had belonged to a cook her family had once employed, letting sunshine absorb into her skin, watching rainbows glitter in the cat's long fur. There was that time in Cozumel when she was sunbathing on a yacht, listening to the sounds of gulls and wind as the waves below lulled her. Watching dust motes in a shaft of sunlight and wondering if they were not in fact minute faeries. The gleam of gold and the cold, soft light of jade when she'd lifted an Aztec jaguar mask out of its silty, submerged bed and into dappled rainforest light….

Geoff lingered in the entrance, watching the woman. At one point he snapped his fingers and she reacted not at all. From where he stood he could make out a hint of fragrance—something warm and soft and comforting. Slipping a floppy silicone device from a pocket, he shook it out and strapped it over his face. He could no longer smell the sweet incense and had been told not to pay attention to the lamp's flames. Keeping his gaze averted, he approached the woman, removed his jacket, balled it up, and smothered the lamp with it. The fabric grew hot in a couple of places and smoke seeped through, but he held it in place until he felt satisfied that the flames were out. When he lifted the singed jacket, the hot lamp lost its radiance as it cooled. He used the ruined garment to tip it to one side to let the oil run onto the floor, then wrapped the lamp in it.

Geoffery gently took hold of the unaware young woman, tilted her and turned her until she lay upon her back upon the marble bench. Her feet still met the floor, but he crossed her arms over her chest and eased her eyelids down before seizing the bundle and departing.

A second driver had been sent after the accident. "Where to, sir?" he asked after Geoff had climbed into the Land Rover.

"Home," he sighed.

"Is there anything to be cleaned up?"

"No. I left her sleeping. She did exactly what I thought she would, little Miss Curiosity." He smiled to himself.

"Very good, sir. Will you be taking the earliest flight?"

"Please."

"I will make the arrangements for you." The man withdrew a portable phone from a pocket, adding, "You will be paid upon arrival in New York."

Geoff set his ruined jacket on the floor beside his feet. "Tell them I'm sorry about the packaging."


End file.
